


Honorable Men Upon God's Green Earth

by Snottite



Category: Nuclear Summer 1997
Genre: Alcohol, Extensive Discussion Of US Foreign Policy, Homoerotic Fishing Trip, I'm Sorry, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Military, Smoking, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2020-03-29 12:44:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19020184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snottite/pseuds/Snottite
Summary: "What?""Nothing." The canvas cot creaks as Sam shifts his weight, flat on his back to look at the tent ceiling above. In the half-light the holes in the tarp form alien constellations, pinpricks of light in a strange drab sky. "Just trying to remember a quote," he says.1974-1992. Jack Fisher makes a series of horrible and life-ruining mistakes. Tags for entire work, no more will be added unless on request.





	1. Negative Space

**Author's Note:**

> Look, somebody's gotta write it, because I sure as hell ain't drawing a whole entire side comic and also am currently the only one with access to canon. Safe to assume most of this is canon-compliant but not necessarily plot-relevant. I am sorry, but will not be stopped.
> 
>  the real thing: ns97.cfw.me

  **1983**

   The noise makes him want to tear his own face off, a thought that enters his mind suddenly and graphically, roots its way into his brain like a worm and refuses to leave. The bar is too loud, the fuzzy rock-n-roll playing somewhere in the background and the clink of glasses and the loud, aggressive laughter of the other men at his table mixing into some horrible, angry sound that he's absolutely certain is digging its way under his skin.  
  _I want to rip my fucking face off_ , Jack thinks, again, the stupid little voice in his head that he hopes isn't what he really sounds like repeating the phrase over and over until it stops sounding like words. _I want to rip my face off, I want to rip my fucking face off, shut the fuck up or I'm going to-_  
  He's so focused on trying not to lose his shit in the middle of ass-nowhere-America's Finest Dive Bar, knuckles white around his untouched beer, that he completely misses the fact that someone's trying to ask him something. "What?" He says, stupidly.  
  Laughter from the table.  
  "See, I told you he wasn't listening," the same voice says. Davies, probably. He doesn't bother checking, wishes he hadn't agreed to fly out here in the first place. They don't need any fucking meet-ups, any catch-up outings, certainly not getting wasted in some stupid bar just because they have a whole three months off for once. They're all from the same unit anyway, maybe except for Townes' buddy from logistics, a small, awkward man in small, round glasses whose name Jack just can't seem to remember. He wants to go home.  
   "Where's Lê?" He manages, mostly casually, mostly in McMurray's direction, sitting next to him and stabbing half-heartedly at what's left of a plate of fries with a toothpick. A shrug.  
   "Fuck am I supposed to know," McMurray says, drawing out the words molasses-slow. "Think he went home, what with him actually living nearby and everything. None of my business if he doesn't want to drink with us. Fuck him." A look in his direction, expectant. Waiting for some sort of a response. There's something behind it, some joke that he's just not catching.  "Thought you'd know, anyway, that's why I didn't bother to tell you when you got back to the table. Seems to me you always know where he is anyway. So."  
  Jack doesn't bother to respond. He's painfully aware of every tiny sound that reaches his ears, lighting up the edges of his vision with prickling bursts of white-gold light. He wonders if this is what going crazy feels like.  
  Someone at the other end of the table is telling a story and he tries, diligently, to listen.  
   "-And _that's_ when she bends over to me and says, 'wow, Rick, good thing you brought the camera!'" Townes finishes, just the last bit of the punchline.  
   Loud laughter. "That's fucking bullshit and you know it, man," someone else says. More laughter. "I got a girl and no way in hell would she let me pull that kind of shit-"

    He stands up, faster than he'd planned, nearly knocks over the chair he's sitting on. Needs to be outside, right now. "Woah, hey, Fisher, where you going?" Someone asks. McMurray. Mild surprise, but no concern behind it.  
    "Hotel," he says, the sentence coming out a little chopped. "I'm done for tonight."  
   "Done?" Davies this time. "What, just 'cause your _buddy_ turned in early?"  
    The idiot from logistics snorts, makes a sound like it's the funniest thing he's heard all fucking day. Jack feels his face heating. This is nothing, he reminds himself. It's not like he hasn't heard that one before, not like the quips haven't ever only been joking. This is nothing. There's no reason to be angry.  
  "No," he hears himself snap. "I'm just getting real tired of sitting around with you assholes."  
   "No shit! Us?" It's Davies again, his voice raised in theatrical indignation. "You know, Fisher, you haven't been much fun yourself lately, either!"  
  "Maybe 'cause you just aren't fucking fun to be around, huh? Think on that, Davies." He's already turning away. Walking away.  
   Davies laughs, loud and angry. "You want to know what I think? You want to know what I think, Fisher? I think-" he's so excited to have something to get pissed over, it's pathetic- "I think it's that, that _bitch_ you're with now, what's her face- Jenny? I know how it is. She tells you she doesn't like you hanging out with your army buddies, tells you to be _responsible_ and sleep early and like the softest little-"

    The door slams shut behind him, too loud, silences the yellow-orange cacophony of the bar like an icy knife. He should care, probably. He doesn't.  
  Belatedly Jack realises he doesn't know how he'll get back to the hotel. On the way here he'd sat in the back of a rental car with McMurray, someone else driving. He doesn't have a car here. He wishes he did, wishes he were somewhere else. There's no way he's coming back inside and begging forgiveness, "hey sorry I really acted like a dick back there but I just realized I need a ride back, so if we can just all put this past us-"  
   Gradually the quiet and the cool night air begin to give the world back its shape, colors becoming things, slowly filling out the edges of his vision rather than just a hazy, narrow tunnel, the overwhelming brightness cooling into blacks and blues. He takes a deep breath, takes in the wide western porch and the parking lot beyond, feels himself cooling, too.  
    There's another person out on the porch with him, leaning against the high wooden railing. A large, solid silhouette it takes him only a moment to recognize, because it's one he'd recognize anywhere.  
   Sam turns his head a little, shifts to look at him halfway over his shoulder. He's most of the way through a filtered cigarette, the dim point glow at the tip lighting the smallest fragments of his face in vertical planes. He looks like a statue, like he's been carved from stone.  
    "Hey," Sam says, softly.  
    Jack feels something twist and shift, deep in the pit of his stomach. For a moment he's afraid that he won't be able to open his mouth at all, that he'll be stuck there on the porch with the door he just slammed shut like the frame of a painting behind him. "Hey," he replies. And then, stupidly, "I thought you went home."  
   Sam smiles, lopsided, just the corner of his mouth pulling upward, changing the shape of the faded scar running through his upper lip that Jack can't see in the dark but knows is there. "I'm on my way," he says. "Figured I'd have a smoke first. Enjoy the night a little. You know."  
   There's space- perfect, negative space- between his mouth and the cigarette he's holding loosely between the fingers of one hand, space that widens and contracts, shifts ever so slightly as he talks. Jack stares at it because he can't possibly look anywhere else, and the night beyond blurs into some strange, amorphous creature, the negative of a body. The absence of hands and shoulders. The space that is not a face, not eyes or worse a mouth and therefore safe to look at. He wants to say something but misses his cue, lets the silence drag on a little too long.  
   "How about you?" Sam asks, eventually, his tone the same as before. Light. Warm. "Just stepped out for some air?"  
    "I. Uh." Jack stumbles over his reply, the effort of shifting his mind to a different track almost unbearable. "I was making to leave, actually." He's still standing in the same place, but the sudden heaviness has drained from him just enough to allow an awkward laugh. "Forgot I don't have a car. Fucking idiot." He raises a hand that doesn't feel like his, rubs at the corner of his mouth. "I may have gotten into an argument. It's whatever."  
   Sam nods, slowly, minimal movement, processing the words but not passing judgement. "I can drive you back to the hotel if you want," he says.  
   "If it's not out of your way," Jack says. He wants to say something else, but the words stick in his throat.  
    "It's no problem, just let me finish this and we can go." Sam gestures, slightly, with the cigarette, brings it back to his lips. Inhale, exhale. A cloud of pale smoke fuzzes the contours of his face. He doesn't offer Jack a cigarette, never does, doesn't want to be responsible for anyone else's health. Despite whatever the irony of that may be. He'd share if asked, though, but Jack doesn't ask. Instead he manages to unstick himself from his spot in front of the door and leans against the wooden railing next to Sam, not touching but close enough that in the summer darkness he more feels than sees him, radiating warmth. He breathes in, all secondhand smoke, something almost giddy about the closeness. A car speeds by down the road beyond the parking lot, just a streak of red tail-lights, like a falling star in the black-on-black of asphalt and night sky. _Make a wish_ , Jack thinks.  
   Sam finishes smoking and stubs out what's left of his cigarette, tucks it back into the pack he fishes out of the pockets of his cargo pants.  
   "Alright," he says. "I'm ready when you are."

Sam's car- a rather battered Toyota pickup of an indeterminably greenish color- is parked all the way at the end of the lot, and they make their way across in companiable silence.

   "So, you're staying at the hotel on Pratt, right?" Sam asks as he starts the engine.  
   "Yeah." Jack buckles his seatbelt with a click. "Look, if that's out of the way for you-"  
   "I wouldn't have offered if it were a problem," Sam says, casually, the words muted slightly as he leans out the open window to judge the distance from the car parked behind them. He brings the pickup out of the crowded lot and onto the road with the ease of someone used to much tighter spaces and far bigger vehicles, only one hand on the wheel almost all of the time. It had annoyed Jack the first couple of times he'd seen Sam drive, maybe even scared him a little, but the seeming carelessness had turned out to belie impressive precision and reflexes. He tries not to complain about it anymore, not unless they're going really fast. They don't end up in the same car that often nowadays, so it doesn't really matter anyway.  
   "It's not like I have anything going on back home, anyway," Sam says as they pass a turn leading onto the interstate, the brief flash of streetlamps striping the interior of the pickup in a deep amber light. "Was going to have a beer maybe, go to bed. Nothing exciting."  
   "Oh," Jack says. "Right. Yeah."

   Jack rests his head against the passenger seat window, watches the night go past outside. Through the black stripes of the roadside trees he can see the obsidian plane of a lake in the distance, black-on-black reflecting sparks of the stars above.  
   "Cove Lake," Sam says, tipping his head in the direction of the water. "Nice fishing spot. We should go sometime. Or Norris Lake, maybe. That's the big one, if you don't mind the longer drive. I mean, two hours out of Knoxville isn't that bad anyway."  
   "Sounds good," Jack says, absently. He's suddenly conscious of the fact that his plane back home is tomorrow, _already_ -  
   They pull onto a larger road, the turn passing under the I-75. Sam rolls up the driver's window a little, the night air steadily heating as they leave the lake behind. They drive in silence for a while, radio off, the only car on the road.  
    "Sam, can I... ask you something?" Jack's voice rings strangely loud in his own ears, interrupting the quiet.  
   "Yeah, sure. Shoot."  
   "Do you-" he regrets it the moment the words come out of his mouth, it sounds so asinine- like they're both fifteen, like they're playing truth or dare at a sleep-over- "Have you ever had a girlfriend?"  
   "Huh?" Sam actually turns his head to look at him, momentarily confused, processing the question. " _Oh._ " He laughs, clear and warm. "No. Can't say I have. Sorry."  
   Jack feels a jolt of... something, certainly- relief? No, just surprise, obviously, there's nothing for him to be relieved by, after all. Even if Sam did have a girlfriend, or if he had in the past, or even if he were married- he never does talk about what he does when he's off, after all- Jack isn't the type to be jealous of something like that- and he _does_ have a girlfriend, anyway- and what kind of a horrible person would he have to be to be relieved his friend was alone? No, he was just surprised that he'd-  
   "Like, _never_?"  
   "Nope." Sam shrugs, insofar as he can without letting go of the steering wheel.  
   It's definitely surprise, it must be, because how could Sam _not_ have caught the interest of a woman at some point? A man like that- he was honest-to-God charming, brimming with the sort of kindness and sincerity that made even complete strangers trust him. He made it feel good to be around him, to simply exist in the same time and place, be part of the same moment he was living in. Even that aside, he was also just plain handsome, if in an asymetrical, rough-hewn kind of way- _Or maybe he just skips the_ dating  _part?_  
   "I mean, even if I can't really speak from experience, maybe it's still something I can help you with?" Sam's eyes flicker from the road to his face again, just for a second, then back to the road. "You know you can tell me anything, right?"  
   "Yeah, I-" Jack hesitates. "It's just- I don't know. It feels like I'm doing something wrong. With Jenny, I mean."  
   "Mhm?"  
   "I mean-" it isn't what he'd meant to say, but the words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. "I'm fucking _miserable_ , Sam." He catches Sam's gaze again, this time reflected in the rearview mirror, feels his face heating. "It's not that- I like her, okay? She's _great_ , we get along fine, we barely argue- it's just-" he breaks off, wonders what the _fuck_  he's doing, why he's telling Sam any of this. "I don't think this is what being in love is supposed to feel like."  
   Sam is silent for a moment, long enough for Jack to begin to wonder just how much of a fool he's made of himself. "How does it feel?" He finally asks.  
   "I-" the question catches Jack off guard. "I don't think it... feels like anything at all," he says. "I don't feel anything. I want to, but I don't. I don't know." He twists his head to stare out the window, doesn't want to see Sam's expression. "It's fucking pathetic. You have no idea. It's worse than nothing." He drags a hand down his face. "Last time she wanted to have sex I fucking _cried_. Who the fuck does that?"  
   "Jack," Sam's voice is gentle, softer than Jack had thought possible. "You shouldn't force yourself to be with someone you don't want to be with."

   "That's not what I-" He feels his teeth gritting together in his mouth. "I didn't say I don't _want_  to! It's just-" There's breath caught in his chest, a shuddering exhale that can't seem to force its way out. "I can't. I can't."  
   "Hey. _Hey._ " Sam reaches out and rests a hand heavy on Jack's shoulder, just as long as he can afford to have it off the wheel. "Hey, man, it's okay." He changes gears, breathes out, long and slow. "Look, it's- if you're not happy, you just gotta talk it through, alright? Tell her it's not working for you. It happens."  
   " _Does_  it?" He's angry, because being angry is easier than being scared, or sad, or horribly lost, because talking feels like sludge pouring out of his mouth, because there's some sort of truth sitting heavy inside him and yet all his words are half-words, all his sentences half-sentences and _omitting_  and _implied_ and- "Does it really? Sam, it's- it's not just about her, it's-"  
   "Jack, it's okay."  
   "What is?" He's clenching his jaw so tightly it feels like his teeth might shatter, and for a second he hopes they do, just to give him something else to worry about. " _What is?_ What the fuck do you think is wrong with me, that you can just nod and tell me it's okay like I don't _know_ it's okay-"  
   "You prefer men, don't you?" Sam has both hands on the steering wheel, back straight, shoulders squared. Focused on the road ahead. Not looking at him.  
   "I-" The question is so simple, so matter-of-fact, so painfully _forward_  it catches Jack completely off guard. "I'm," he says. "I'm not- I'm not a _fucking f_ -"  
   " _Jack,_ " Sam says. Soft. And then, "I'm gonna pull over, alright?"

   There are no other cars on the road, and when Sam kills the engine with the _chak_  of turning keys the only light is the distant, dirty orange glow of Knoxville on the horizon. There's- not silence, but an absence of words, the chainsaw cicada buzz still going strong even after nightfall.  
   "We'll get going again in a moment," Sam promises. "I'd just- it's easier to talk if I can actually look at you."  
   Jack doesn't say anything. He's turning the question over in his head, more of a tentative statement, more of a- _Hey, Jack! You're a fag, aren't you? You look like a-_  
   "Maybe we should talk," Sam says, again. "I mean- it's none of my business, what you do. It's just that I worry, you know? You're my best friend. I want you to be happy."  
   "Sorry," Jack says. Processing, through the haze of embarrassment still heating his face. _You're my best friend._ "I shouldn't have said anything."  
   "That's not what I-" Sam sighs. "You seem like you're hurting and I- I just want to help. Look, maybe I'm not-" he drums his fingers on the rim of the steering wheel, searching for the right words. "Not exactly the smartest person for all this. I don't really have the words for this kinda shit, but. I can try."  
   "You don't have to." Jack realises he's toeing the line between deserving of sympathy and just plain pathetic, or at least hopes he is, wishes Sam would stop trying to be so _nice_  and _understanding_.  Wishes he were still distant and intimidating, someone with whom meetings were restricted to the impersonal brute force of occasional combat training or else imagined, played over and over in his head and not very, very real and entirely out of his control. Better yet just someone who'd laugh him off, make fun of him because, _c'mon, who the fuck isn't happy about getting some pussy-_   "Nothing to talk about. It's fine. I'm just- I'm tired. Just tired." He can feel Sam's gaze on him, intent, unconvinced.  
   "Okay," Sam says, slowly. "If you're sure." A pause. Then, "I'm sorry if I said something uncomfortable." He makes a move like he wants to start the car back up, but he doesn't, stops with a hand over the key in the ignition. "Jack-"  
   "It's _fine_."  
   "No, I meant-" Sam breaks off, bites back whatever he was going to say, draws back the hand he'd just extended, in some abrupt decision, towards Jack's- shoulder? cheek? "You're right. It's really none of my business." He leans back into the driver's seat with a slow exhale.  
   The sounds of outside creep back into the interior of the truck, cicadas gradually growing quiet, replaced by the rising hiss of night-wind in the dry grasses off the side of the road. Through the half-open windows Jack can feel the heat radiating in waves off the asphalt, the time from sunset to sunrise no longer enough for the earth to cool. Beside him, Sam is a shape only bearable to look at out of the corner of his eye, on carefully coordinated accident, dangerously within reach. He seems like he's struggling with something, trying to fold words back into himself, forcing himself to leave something unsaid. Jack suddenly imagines himself kissing him, a thought so laughably out of place in the situation he's just put himself in, so _absurd_ , that he's unable to rationalise it, to bury it in plausible deniability, to blame it on adrenaline or fear or alcohol or- _it would be so simple, just to lean over, to feel his mouth open, so slowly, against yours-_  
   Sam turns the key in the ignition and the pickup rattles to life with a start. He pulls back onto the road, and the rest of the way into town passes in silence.


	2. Paper Houses

**1984**

   All in all, Sam takes the news that Jack has a child very well. That is to say, he chokes on his oatmeal.  
   "You're- Holy shit," he says between hacking coughs, as soon he's able to breathe. "You're fucking with me."  
   "Am not." Jack seems markedly less excited about it than he should. The makeshift mess hall they're sitting in is more of a large tent, just tarp stretched overhead and long, rough-hewn wooden benches and tables. The hour is still early enough that they have a table to themselves- there are just a few other soldiers milling around, returning from night shifts or just about to start the first daytime watch. Jack turns his head to watch the morning light filter through the entrance to the tent, still pale but already graying with the promise of heat. He stabs absently at his bowl of mush with a spoon. "I got a call a couple hours ago," he says slowly. "Well, the guys in SoCal got a call. Davies patched me through."  
   "Wow. Uh." Sam isn't sure what he's supposed to say. He doesn't usually have much trouble getting a read on people, but Jack isn't really looking much besides "tired" right now. "Congratulations," he hazards. And then, "You didn't tell me Jenny- it _is_ Jenny, right? Didn't know she was pregnant."  
   "Oh. Yeah. Sorry." Jack drops his spoon into his oatmeal. It doesn't sink, and he stares at it disappointedly. "Guess I forgot to mention it. It didn't really seem important, I guess." He sighs. "I feel like I should've been there. Not that I could've actually done anything to help, but-" he breaks off. "She manages everything else just fine without me, so. You know."  
   Sam has no idea. "Yeah," he says.  
   There's a moment of silence between them, background noise filling the space with the murmur of quiet conversation. Doctor Eichel shuffles into the tent, politely declines the oatmeal, politely accepts a thermos from one of the soldiers minding the food and then makes a beeline for their table. Apparently news travels fast, because in lieu of a greeting he extends a hand to Jack in congratulations. Sam tunes out, taking the barest note of the hallmark platitudes, which Jack accepts with an awkward half-smile.  
   Having thus fulfilled his duty to maintaining social order, Eichel plops down across from them and takes a long drink from the mystery thermos. "Looks like it'll be hot today, hm?" He says.  
   "Probably," Sam agrees amicably. It will, obviously, and unbearably so to boot, just like it has for the entire past three weeks they've been stationed here- but who is he to deprive a man of his morning smalltalk? "How's Tank doing?"  
   "He'll live." The doctor takes another drink, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Nothing I can do about the missing fingers, but as long as he keeps on the antibiotics he'll heal up fine."  
   Sam makes a nondescript noise somewhere along the lines of sympathy. "That's what you get for sticking your hands in a gearbox," he says. "Either way, I'm glad he's fine."  
   Eichel nods. "Ah, that reminds me," he says. "I've been meaning to ask you a favor."  
   "Regarding Tank?" Sam raises an eyebrow.  
   "Regarding Colonel García." The doctor carefully folds his hands on the table in front of him. "I have a, ah, request I would like to make of him. I was wondering if you might pass it on."  
   Sam sighs. _This again._  "Can't you ask him yourself?" He asks.  
   "I would prefer not to," the man replies tersely, his voice immediately cooling. "The colonel likes you. He barely _tolerates_  me. Besides, I would rather not interrupt him when he's busy."  
   "You get into an argument over fund use again?" Sam decides to give the oatmeal a second chance, mostly just to avoid meeting Eichel's unblinking stare. For some reason the man insists on maintaining unbroken eye contact with whoever he's talking to, and Sam finds it more unsettling than he'd like to admit. He can feel the doctor's gaze on his face as he looks away, his movement followed by gray, watery eyes.  
   "We had a minor disagreement," Eichel says diplomatically. Very diplomatically, even, considering that Sam, who'd been repairing a truck on the other side of camp at the time, could probably quote most of it, expletives and all. The colonel was a reasonable man, mostly, Sam had found early on, but he seemed to have, of all things, a very strict set of _morals_ (even though Sam still wasn't _entirely_ sure what these entailed) and didn't take lightly to suggestions against them. The doctor at least still had what bore some semblance of a self-preservation instinct, unlike certain... Others.  
   "You had a fucking screaming match," Sam says mildly. "Look, doc, if you can't have a normal conversation with the boss, maybe you should bring that up with someone higher up the chain. I think you overestimate my influence here."  
   "Do I?" There's definitely a challenge to the words now, an underlying current, an _implication_ that Sam is both well aware of and completely disinclined to aknowledge. It seems to him as if most of his conversations have taken this turn lately, become verbal minefields, a ceaseless stream of opponents just waiting for him to say something wrong, to admit to something he shouldn't.  
   "I'd say you do." This time Sam does meet his gaze, holds it until the man finally, _finally_ , dips his head in acknowledgment.  
   "I see," he says. "Very well. I'll ask someone else."  
   Eichel drains whatever's left of his mystery drink and stands up. "I'll be going now," he says. "Fisher. Again. Congratulations."  
   Jack nods, but doesn't stand up. He watches the doctor leave, eyes fixed on the man's receding back, and as soon as the tarp flaps flop closed behind him, his gaze flickers back to Sam. "What's his problem?" He asks.  
   Sam shrugs. "We had an... ideological disagreement a couple nights back. I might have sounded... not convincingly _theoretical_ enough defending an opinion I voiced." He grimaces. "Jesus. I really am starting to sound like him." Sam leans back in a stretch, then cracks his knuckles. " _Doctor Eichel_ ," he says, in a voice that is many things, but "respectful" is certainly not among them, "Believes I am sucking my CO's _dick_ in exchange for, say, power and influence, and that _somehow_  this means I am both able and willing to aid him in getting budget cuts he disagrees with rolled back." He laughs dryly. "Impressively far off the mark. On all counts."  
   For just a fraction of a second, Jack's knuckles go white as his hands tighten in an involuntary clench, more a twitch than actual movement. His expression doesn't change. "Oh." He says. "Okay."  
   Sam doesn't comment on the reaction, but the silence as he tries to figure out which part of what he said made the man flinch drags on just a little longer than he'd like. The air around them begins to heat as the sun claws its way over the horizon, sinks its teeth into the earth in a sizzle of wavering light. Sam can feel the clammy morning damp evaporate off his skin, the inside of the tent already humid and beginning to become uncomfortably warm. If anything, it's a good excuse. He turns to Jack. "What d'you think? If we head out now, we might still be able to get some sparring in before the training field gets hot enough to fry an egg on." He nudges the man's shoulder. "You up for it?"  
   Jack turns to look at him, and for the first time that morning there's a spark of life behind the deep grey of his eyes. "God, yeah," he says. "Let's go."

-

**1985**

   _They have a house,_ Sam thinks to himself as he pulls up into the driveway, feeling a flash of surprise that the fact seems so oddly alien to him. _A real-life, honest-to-god, normal-person house._ Well, of course they do. It was obvious they would, wasn't it, he's been driving through the neighborhood for block after block now, passing rows of houses just like this one: tiny front yards and flowerbeds and windchimes clinking softly in the spring breeze. And yet he can't help but feel oddly self-conscious as he gets out of his car, the beat-up jeep pulled up into a spotless little driveway. Sam takes a moment to check his reflection in the rearview mirror, feeling less and less confident about his choice of dress shirt with every passing second. Not that it should really _matter_ , he and Jack have known each other for _ages_ , it's just that- there's something surreal to him about the nice suburban neighborhood, something- his mind skips over the word _civilian_ , a gentle protection from a painful truth. He'd bought a bottle of wine on the way, and he picks it up from where it'd rolled on the passenger-side floor before he locks the car. He'd decided it had felt like the sort of thing normal people did when they visited each other, and the fact that he's worried about that at all seems almost as odd to him as everything else. _Stranger in a strange land_ , he thinks as he follows the short path up to the front door. There's something frightening about that thought, maybe, about the way the neatness of the neighborhood grates against him, some sort of almost-life lost to scorched earth and desert winds. He pushes the thought down, and by the time he raises his free hand to knock on the door, it's almost entirely gone.

   Jenny answers the door. He first realises this, ironically, because of how much taller she is than Jack, and the split-second it takes him to adjust for the added head of height is just long enough to be absolutely certain he's lost his only chance at a good impression.  
   The woman is thin in an athletic, sculpted sort of way, all carved planes and sharp angles that remind him of a statue, terracotta or maybe smooth, dark wood. Like one of those saints in old European churches, maybe, though not quite, high-cheekboned face serene but imposing and almost haughty. Her straight, jet-dark hair hangs loose and long around her shoulders, but Sam is somehow unsurprised to see she's dressed almost the same as he is, flannel button-down and well-worn jeans. Jenny extends a hand in greeting, and Sam has to awkwardly switch the wine bottle to his left to take it. Her grip is firm and dry, and when he meets her gaze her sea-grey eyes seem to bore into him. "Hey," she says, low and even. "You must be Sam."

   The interior of the house puts him slightly more at ease, clean but not sterile, the decorative shelves lining the walls of the entrance hall heavy with a large collection of hand-made pottery. The floors are wood, teak or maybe a dark walnut, well-kept but not intimidatingly expensive-looking, and there's something envelopingly warm about the deep colors of the rooms he can see into from the corridor, easy browns and beiges and jewel-toned pillows and throws and vases. Sam can smell something cooking, meat and rich, fresh spices and possibly some sort of fruit, pleasant and welcoming and he suddenly, briefly, feels a stab of something not unlike envy. _Do I... Do I want a life like this? A house like this? A place made warm by someone else?_    
   Jenny takes the wine bottle from him with a soft _thank you_ and a _will be joining you shortly_  and leads him into the dining room before disappearing back into the kitchen herself.

   Jack is sitting in a chair away from the table in the center of the room and pulled up right to the crib set against one of the walls, leaning on his forearms over the high, slatted wooden sides. He doesn't notice Sam come in at first, and Sam, somehow, finds himself unable to call out to him. Instead he just stands there, awkwardly, and watches the man watch his tiny daughter sleep.  
   Sam feels a dull, heavy ache settle low in the cavity of his chest and somehow he's not sure whether it's jealousy or concern. He forces the feeling down, like swallowing something dry, files it away for those rare nights when he drinks himself to sleep. Not as rare as they used to be, nowadays. _What kind of man can't be happy for his best friend? Even if-_  
   Jack doesn't look happy. He looks tired, mostly, shadows under his eyes and hair neatly parted and slicked back in a way that Sam's never seen him wear anywhere else. He wonders if it's because Jenny likes it better that way, or maybe- maybe she hates how it looks, and that's why. He's not sure which option feels worse.  
   Sam coughs awkwardly and finally Jack turns at the sound, broken out of his train of thought with a start. His entire face lights up when he sees Sam and he laughs, the sound involuntary and desperate and bubbling up out out of his chest. "Hey!" He says, standing up so fast the chair rocks back perilously. "Sam! It's been _forever_!"  
   It's been three-and-a-half months, approximately, and Sam knows because he's been keeping count, but he doesn't say this, and he doesn't say that it's been forever for him too, either, just takes the step forward and opens his arms and folds himself into the hug Jack gives him with enough strength to nearly knock the air out of his lungs. It's only a second, the man's arms wrapped tight around his shoulders just long enough for a heartbeat and a half, but it's _something_ , and for a moment the heaviness in Sam's chest eases a little.  
   They draw apart just a little slower than they should, and Sam takes a deep, guilty inhale of the space between them, trying to trap the lingering, solid warmth in the crevices of his lungs. "How's it going?" He asks, finally, and he thanks whatever higher power might be listening that his voice doesn't shake.  
   "Oh, you know," Jack moves the chair he'd been sitting on back into its place at the table. "It's been going." He shakes his head slightly. "You?"  
   "Same old, same old." Sam shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "You know how it is."  
   "Yeah." Jack nods slightly.  
   "Picked up a stray dog on my way back from Maine last month," Sam says, fishing for a subject, trying to keep an awkward silence at bay. "Big old hairy mutt, didn't have a collar or nothin' either. I wanted to keep him, you know, even bought one of those big dog beds before I realised-" he laughs, though there isn't much joy in it. "Can't right take care of a dog when I'm away for months on end, you know?"  
   Jack nods. "Should've called," he says, softly. "I'd- _we_  would've taken him in. Jenny's fine with dogs, says it'd be company while I'm gone, too. You should call next time."  
   Sam smiles, and it's almost easy. "Thanks. I will."  
   There's a beat, and Sam pulls his hands back out of his pockets, rubs absently at a wrist with the thumb of his other hand. He glances back at the corridor to the kitchen. "Is there, uh- anything I can go help out with?"  
   "You'd have to ask Jenny, honestly," Jack says, "But we can go check if you're set on it. Don't have to, you know, you're a guest."  
   _For some reason, that hurts._  
   "Lucy's alseep so-" _Lucy. His daughter. Her name is Lucy-_  "-I think we can leave her alone for a moment."

   There doesn't end up being much for him to do beyond helping Jack set the table, but Jenny thanks him anyway with a laugh and a quip he doesn't quite catch, woodsmoke voice blurring the words enough that he's not certain just exactly what was said. He just laughs and half-shakes his head, hoping she won't notice the lack of an actual reply. She doesn't seem to.  
   They eat in the dining room, each of them at a different side of the table, and Sam manages to put enough mind to the ever-growing list of kitchen utensils he _doesn't_ own- _different kinds of wine glasses?_ \- that he almost doesn't think about the way Jack's hands brush against Jenny's whenever they pass each other plates and glasses and bowls, back and forth across the table. The food is good, _very_  good, and the atmosphere eases more naturally than not.  
   The conversation holds its own, for the most part, mostly Sam and Jenny talking, mostly Sam talking, the news and the weather and just enough politics to still sound safely neutral. Jenny, apparently, has no terribly strong opinions either way when it comes to the election results, and Sam bites his own back. There's- not quite a cloud, but an implication of one, a shadow of a shadow hanging over the discussion, the weather alright but the news mostly bad, and when Jack's knuckles whiten on his fork at Jenny's suddenly, viciously enthusiastic "-and speaking of _hospitals_ -" Sam cuts her off, a little too loud, because the lakes here up north are just absolutely _incredible_ , and does she know if the fishing really is as good as they say it is, and-

   The wine he'd bought, it turns out, tastes perfectly fine.


	3. If Only For An Ocean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no beta no proof we die like very, very depressed men. this one was originally more coherent and also had sex in it but what is writing for if not for making weird shit

**1985**

   It's the slam of the car door that jerks Jack back to reality, dragged from the absent, hollow place of his mind into the dizzying brightness of the late-spring afternoon. It takes him a moment to reorient himself, and he wonders, still absent and detached, if that return really has been taking him longer lately than it used to.  
   The first thing that settles into his mind is the way the concrete driveway is warm even through the soles of his boots, and when he breathes in, deep and hungry, like surfacing, the air in his lungs flavors thick with the strange green sweetness of the young magnolia blossoming for the first time in the neighbors' front yard. Sam is- here, yes, bit by bit the world fills with people- he's finished double-checking his packing and is now leaning back against the hood of his truck, arms crossed over his chest.  
He's- it takes Jack a moment to bring the words into focus- talking to Jenny, asking if _really_ , is she sure she wouldn't want to come fishing with them this time, and he's dead certain the kid's old enough for a first family trip, and it's a shame to miss out on weather this good and nodding, maybe a little too fervently, at her polite refusal and shake of the head.  
   The w- his _wife_ , he reminds himself- is leaning against the frame of their front door, her pose almost mirroring Sam's if not for the fact that she has Lucy, tiny and fast asleep, cradled in her arms. She looks tired, but ordinarily so, a few hours of sleep too few and not some sort of staggering pain threatening to cave her chest under its weight.  
   She meets Jack's eyes, suddenly, as if she'd felt his gaze on her and turned her own to seek it, and though her light smile remains the same there is a sudden, hard _coldness_  behind her eyes that nearly makes him start. Not hatred, not quite, no more willingly hostile than lake-ice cracking beneath his feet, but still he feels something deep within him shift and sway. For a moment, just a brief second, the spring sun a blinding white, he hopes she resents him. Hopes she hates him for what he's done to her life, hopes that when she looks at him she sees the same slow-motion collapse, the same floor tilting up and away from under her feet. Then she blinks, and once again the stormy grey of her eyes is just striking, not cold.  
   The truth is, he thinks, and there's more resignation than bitterness to the thought, is that she isn't the one who cries herself to sleep in the dark.

   Jenny doesn't leave her place as he climbs into the passenger seat and, as Sam backs them out of the paved driveway and onto the road, she sees them off with a half-wave and a mellowly cheerful _You boys have fun!_. Jack is grateful she does not say anything else.  
    
   They don't really talk for the first couple of miles. Sam turns on the radio, just loud enough to form a crackle of background noise, hums along absently to some new country song. He keeps glancing at Jack out of the edge of his eye, but he doesn't say anything. He thinks though. Very loudly.  
   The world passes by outside in shades of timid green, and Jack watches it blur through the dust-specked window of the passenger seat. There's a heavy weight settled in the pit of his stomach, and for once it doesn't fade as he watches the road unfurl.  
   It's not until they pass the interstate that Sam breaks the silence, asking Jack to double-check a roadsign, and then not again until they're on the pothole-riddled side road leading right up to the lake.  
   Sam slows the truck, carefully bringing it around a hole in the road big enough to swallow a wheel. "Something on your mind," he says. It's a statement, not a question.  
   Jack stiffens visibly. "Don't worry about it."  
   Sam sighs. They're pulling into what passes as a parking area, just a small clearing between the lakeside trees. This side of the water is always abandoned, even on sunny days like this one. "Look," he says. "I can't make you tell me anything, but-"  
   "Then don't." Jack doesn't wait for him to finish parking, clicks off his seatbelt and is out the door almost before they stop moving.  
   Sam kills the engine before he follows him, pauses right at the line of the shade cast by the trees and watches the man stomp right up to the edge of the lake, boots clacking on the smooth pebbles making up the shore. Jack picks up a stone without looking, lobs it into the water. It skips once, then disappears with a _plunk._ He leans down and picks up another, and this time he doesn't even pretend to try and skip it. _Plunk._   And another. And another. And another.  
   "Maybe we should talk," Sam calls.  
   Jack pauses, and Sam watches his shoulders square defensively. Then he bends down, picks up another rock. This one almost reaches the middle of the lake before it hits the water in a graceful downward curve. _Plunk._  
   "Maybe we shouldn't," Jack says. He doesn't turn around. _Plunk._  
   "Why not?" Sam sighs. "You know what? Come here. I don't want to yell."  
   This time Jack does turn, or at least twist his head more-or-less in Sam's direction. "I don't think we should talk," he repeats, slowly, putting force into each of the words, one by one. "I don't _want_ to talk."  
   "Yeah, well, I do." Sam pushes himself up off the grass and makes his way over to where Jack is standing. The sunlight past the cool shade of the treeline is surprisingly bright, and for a moment he has to narrow his eyes against the sudden intensity of color, blues and greens and red dancing along the edges of his vision. "You've been... You've been doing bad lately," he says. "Bad enough I can tell, and that sure's gotta be something."  
   Jack doesn't pull away when he stops beside him, but his jaw tightens. "Don't you trust me enough to believe me when I say something's a bad idea?" He asks, voice clipped.  
   "I trust you enough to believe you _think_ it's a bad idea," Sam says. The lake in front of them is beautiful, glittering a thousand shades of blue and silver in the early afternoon sun. Something splashes softly in the shallows just out of view, a fish or maybe a diving bird. "I also know you well enough to tell when it's something that's gonna keep eating at you. Something that's _been_  eating you."  
   Jack shrugs tensely. "It's nothing. I can _deal_."  
   "Can you?" Jack isn't looking at him, so Sam doesn't try to force the eye contact. He looks out across the lake instead, focuses into the distance until his vision starts to blur. "Is that what you've been doing, Jack? Dealing?" He isn't _angry_ , not really, but the words come out rough anyway, maybe rougher than he meant to but it doesn't feel like a conversation that's going to work without _breaking_ something first. Like a shell. Like a bird hatching or crushing an egg in your fist and watching the yolk spill out over your fingers. "For how long? Years?"  
   "Stop it-"  
   "Since we first _met_? Is that what you've been doing?" Now Sam does turn, not seeking reaction but because not-looking suddenly makes him feel so terribly alone, as if the man might disappear if he's out of his sight for another second longer. Jack is clenching his teeth together so hard that Sam can see the individual muscles of his jaw working, and when he finally speaks the words sound ground-out, a barely intelligible growl forcing its way out of his throat.  
   It's enough. It's too much.  
   "I said shut the _fuck_ -"  
   "You're _dealing_? You drink yourself half to death, you _marry_ a woman you can barely stand to _touch_ , and you call that fucking _dealing_?"  
   "Sam, _please_ -"  
   "I have to watch you destroy your own damn life piece by fucking piece and I have to stand by and let it happen, because you're a _grown fucking man_ who _knows what's best_  for him-"  
   " _Sam._ " Jack's sudden grip on his shoulder is desperate and iron-hard, fingers biting into the flesh with enough force to bruise, and the eyes that meet Sam's are rimmed with red and panickedly, wetly bright. "Shut up. Shut the fuck up. _Stop_."  
   "Or what?" Sam feels the energy draining out of him, bit by bit, but the words keep coming anyway, some sort of remaining momentum, a desperate inertia. There are birds chirping in the weeping willows by the edge of the lake, oblivious and welcoming the first true warmth of the year. "Or what? When you finally give up and put the gun in your mouth, is that gonna be _dealing_ too?"  
   Jack lets out some sort of strangled, choking cry, and for a moment Sam thinks the man is going to hit him, but instead he lets go of his shoulder and throws himself against him with enough force to knock them both off-balance, arms around Sam's neck. Sam isn't sure if it's supposed to be a hug or some sad attempt at choking him but he lets it happen, lets Jack bury his face in the bare space between his neck and his shoulder, feels the teeth bared against his skin as the man tries to bite back a ragged dry sob.  
   "Jack-"  
   "Shut up. _Shut up_." He's getting- spit or tears or _something_  on Sam's neck, and it's honestly kind of gross, but it doesn't matter, and- "You don't get to-" Jack chokes on the words a little. "You don't get to do that."  
   "Do what?"  
   " _Care_. About me. Don't."  
   " _Jack_?"  
   "It'd be-" the words come out ragged, and Sam feels Jack shift to properly wrap his arms around him, hands grasping at the fabric of his shirt. He's shaking, badly, as if simultaneously trying to draw closer and pull away. "It'd be easier if you hated me. Easier to- fuck. I don't know." He takes a shuddering breath. "To- to move on. To accept that we- I-"  
   "Jack." Sam leans his head against Jack's, cheek pressed into dark, sun-warmed hair. "Listen to me. Listen. Okay?"  
   There's a long, vibrating pause. Jack catches his breath. "Okay."  
   "Whatever this is- whatever all of this _really_  is. You can tell me."  
   "I don't think th-"  
   "I said, _listen_." Sam raises a hand to press gently against the back of Jack's head, threads his fingers through his hair. "You can tell me, and I won't leave. I'll stay right here, right until you tell me to do different. Promise." The stones under his feet crunch as Jack shifts his weight, pulling back just enough to look at his face. Sam lets him. He pauses. Inhale. Exhale. "You're my best friend, alright? I'd do anything for you."  
   Jack's face twists, a pained approximation of a smile, and he half-turns away. He laughs bitterly. "Don't say that."  
   "Why? I said anything." They're not touching, now, Sam lets the man draw back without protest. "Just ask."  
   "I won't ask."  
   "Why? What could possibly be so terrible?" They're both looking at each other, not-quite meeting eyes. "What could you want from me that I wouldn't be willing to give?"  
   Jack laughs again, that same pained chuckle. "Leave it. Please. It's my own damn issue, alright?"  
   "Then don't ask. Tell me what you wouldn't ask me and I won't hear it and I'll say nothing."  
   "You're dumb as shit, Sam."  
   "Hah. Come on."  
   Jack throws his head back, as far as it'll go, takes a deep breath. "You won't bring it up again."  
   "If that's what you want."  
   There's a moment of quiet, just the birds chirping and small things moving somewhere in the water. Jack closes his eyes, feels the sunlight sliding across his face. And then he speaks, very slowly, so low it's barely more than his mouth making the empty shapes of the words. "I want you to kiss me," he says, and by some miracle his voice doesn't shake. There's a beat. "Just once. Just so I know how it feels. It would be enough. If you could just-" he pauses. "Just pretend for a moment."  
   Another beat. Sam feels his heart slow and steady in his chest, counting the growing silence in pulsing intervals. It seems so simple, suddenly, despite everything, despite, possibly, his better judgement. He raises a hand, slowly, to press a palm against Jack's cheek. The man's eyes flicker behind his lowered eyelids, but he doesn't flinch away. "I don't have to pretend," Sam says, softly. And then he leans in and kisses him.

   Jack stiffens at first, surprised, but his eyes don't open and his hands rise to cup Sam's face, fingers ghosting across his cheeks to settle at the back of his neck, thumbs in the soft dip between his ear and the edge of his jaw. There's a brief moment of stillness between them and for a second Sam almost feels lost, unsure if he's made the right call after all, if he should have waited- and then Jack opens his mouth against his and kisses back, hungry and deep. It's rough and a little clumsy, Sam out of practice and Jack very clearly not entirely sure what he's doing but it works, it _works_ , and goddamn if it's not the best he's felt in a very, very long time.  
   Finally they draw apart for breath, the distance only as large as it has to be, foreheads touching. Jack brings a hand to his mouth, presses the back of it against his lips. "That was- I-" he exhales shakily. There's a moment of silence. "Thank you."  
   Sam laughs, the sound bubbling up before he can stop it. "You don't have to-" he breaks off. "Jack, I-"  
   "Don't say anything. Please." Jack still has his eyes squeezed shut, expression completely unreadable but there's something so agonizingly pained to his voice that it makes Sam's chest ache. He can't imagine leaving him like that. It would be cruel. _Maybe all of this is cruel_ , he thinks.  
   "Hey. Look at me." Sam draws back a little to brush a strand of stray hair from Jack's forehead with one hand. "I meant what I said, okay."  
   There's a pause. "What?"  
   "About not pretending." Sam sighs. "Look, I've- Okay. Fuck it. I've been wanting to do that. For a while now. Kissing you, I mean."  
   "Oh, God." Jack opens his eyes.  
   "Yeah."  
   There's a beat.  
   "Jesus." Jack laughs dryly. "You- fuck. Okay. _Fuck_! I'm an idiot." He takes a step back, looks away, back at Sam. Away again. He shoves his hands into his pockets. Takes them out. "And you didn't- _shit_." He pauses. "How long?"  
   Sam tilts his head back, unfocuses on the clear blue sky overhead. "Look, you're- you're _married_ , I couldn't have just-"  
   "How long."  
   Sam sighs. "Couple years."  
   " _Fuck_!"  
   Jack takes a few paces towards the lake, turns back again, runs a hand through his hair. He laughs again, shakily. "You're fucking with me."  
   "Wh- of course I'm not _fucking with you_ , Jack, what kind of a- Okay. Okay. No. I'm serious." Sam rubs a hand against his cheek, fingers scratching against the stubble. "That much at least, it's-" he pauses. Reframes. "Is that- is that what this's been about?"  
   Jack, insofar as he can blush, goes red. "Maybe some of it. Kinda. Little bit." He looks away. "Sounds pretty fucking stupid now, huh."  
   "It's not-" Sam exhales heavily. "It's not stupid. It's not like it could have been easy. Not like it's going to be easy. Not like this is-"  
   Jack shrugs, awkwardly. "Easier than spending years beating myself up over wondering whether you'd fuck me if I asked," he says. "I'm going to sit down now." He lowers himself onto the ground, pulls his knees up to his chest.  
   "Is that- that how it's been?" Sam, after a moment's consideration, sits down next to him, facing the lake.  
   Jack shrugs again. "Got used to the idea that you'd hate me eventually pretty quick," he says. He leans forwards to rest his chin on his knees. "Almost easier. You get used to it." He sighs. "Never did know how to deal with being... Jealous, I guess."  
   "Mhm." A bird dives off a nearby branch into the water with a splash. It's not the right word. None of the words are right. _It's strange how much you can say while saying something else_ , Sam thinks. He watches the ripples spread out across the water, made irregular by the flapping of wings. "We're gonna talk about that."  
   "Not now."  
   "Alright." There's a long silence, and then Sam exhales. Very, very slowly. "So this is what we're doing now."  
   "I don't know. Are we?" Jack almost manages to keep the shake out of his voice, and it gives him, distantly, a stab of disjointed pride. There's maybe six inches of space between them and from up this close it's hard not to meet Sam's eyes but he gives it his best shot anyway, even if there isn't much of anywhere else to look. There isn't much of anything else at all, or maybe there is, maybe everything else _is_ and it's just that the two of them are some strange void against the gravelly shore, a dip in pressure against the cool lakeside air, a darkness swallowing the marbled light that falls from between the low-hanging willows growing right at the edge of the water. He can feel the branches sway in the gentle wind, patches of dappled warmth shifting across his skin. "What _are_  we doing, Sam?" He asks.  
   Sam is quiet for a moment, for an eternity, agonizingly silent. There's water right beneath the pebbled lake-edge that's beginning to bite into his knees and he can feel it seeping, slowly, up to the surface, cold through fabric and the palms of his hands. "I wish I fucking knew," he says.  
   The words come out softer than they should have any right to, just barely louder than a whisper. "I wish I knew, Jack. It's-" he breaks off for a moment, gathering thoughts. "It's not a good idea. And I don't think the fact I don't care about that makes me a very good person."  
   Jack shakes his head, violently. "Doesn't matter-"  
   "Doesn't it?" Sam doesn't reach out to touch him even though he wants to, very badly, to offer some sort of comfort or maybe just seeking it for himself. "Look- you're fucking _married_ and I'm thirty-three this year and my main hobby is _still_  sleeping with people I meet in bars-"  
   "Don't forget fishing." Jack has wrapped his arms around his knees, shoulders tensed, but his voice is almost even.  
   Sam snorts. "And fishing. Alright. My point is-" he sighs. "I don't know if this is going to end well. I don't think it's going to end well and I think I should be more worried about that then I am." He digs a hand into the pebbles covering the shore, picks out a small stone without looking and worries it through his fingers.  
   "You think it would change anything? Between us?" Jack looks younger like this. Vulnerable. Still very, very carefully avoiding putting a name to it. Whatever it is they've just done. Whatever it is they're doing. Whatever it is they're definitely, certainly, not going to do.  
   Sam shakes his head. There's a strange lightness to the conversation now, not an ease but the realisation that they're speaking in abstracts again. Theoreticals. "Not... Not us, I don't think. Christ. Not like any of this is anything we haven't been doing. Just different words to it. Apart from the- okay, the kissing is mostly new." He shrugs. "I mean- I don't know what else there even _is_."  
   "Flowers and hand-holding?"  
   Sam laughs this time, though it cuts off quick. "That's- _is_  that what you want?"  
   Jack turns his head to look at him. "How long have you known me?"  
   "Ten- going on eleven years now."  
   "Yeah."  
   "Alright. Well." Sam half-shrugs. "I mean- that's not the kind of stuff we've talked about. Me, I wouldn't even know if I'd-"  
   "You want me to buy you flowers sometime?"  
   Sam laughs. "Maybe it'd be nice."  
   Jack leans over to give him a light shove. Then he goes quiet.  
   Sam watches his expression shift uncomfortably. "Jack-"  
   "I can't ask you for any of this. Not for real."  
   "I know."  
   There's a long silence. Jack digs his fingers into the fabric of his jeans so hard his knuckles go white, but his mouth stays a thin, even line. "Maybe..." He trails off. "Maybe one day."  
   "Yeah." Sam looks away, back across the lake. The sun is beginning to dip towards the horizon, the sky slowly starting to bronze. The first wisps of evening clouds scuttle across the deep, high blue, rushed by winds too far up to feel. "Maybe one day." There's another silence, stretching out, a pale, cold amber.  
   Finally, Jack sighs and pulls himself to his feet. "We should pitch the tent before it gets dark," he says.  
   Sam looks up at him, the words so suddenly down-to-earth it takes him a moment to register their meaning. "Oh, right. Yeah." He stands up as well, folds his hands into his pockets. Sighs. "You want a beer? Pretty sure I have a couple bottles in the truck."  
   Jack shrugs loosely. "Sure." He looks away. The conversation is unfinished, maybe, but it's done. "You want one too?"  
   "Sure."  
   "Then I'll-" he gestures towards the car.  
   "Yeah."  
   "Yeah."


End file.
